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DWS 


AND  OTHER  VERSES  OF 
THE  GREAT  WAR 


BY 
CLINTON  SCOLLARD 


THE  VALE  OF  SHADOWS 


BOOKS  BY 
MR.    CLINTON    SCOLLARD 

Songs  of  a  Syrian  Lover.     4s.  net 

ELKIN  MATHEWS,  London 
The  Lyric  Bough.    $1.00  net 
Voices  and  Visions.     $1.00  net 

SHERMAN.  FRENCH  &  CO. 
Poems.     $1.25  net 
HOUGHTON  MIFFLIN  COMPANY 


THE 

VALE  OF  SHADOWS 

AND  OTHER  VERSES  OF 
THE  GREAT  WAR 


BY 
CLINTON   SCOLLARD 


NEW  YORK 

LAURENCE  J.  GOMME 
1915 


Copyright,  1915,  by  Clinton  Scollard 


It  is  the  purpose  of  the  publisher 
and  author  of  this  volume  to  donate 
whatever  profits  may  accrue  from 
it  to  the  Belgian  Relief  Fund. 


CONTENTS 


PAGE 

The  Vale  of  Shadows 7 

Prayer  in  Time  of  Conflict 

10 

The    Carnival          .... 

11 

The  Watcher  by  the  Tower 

12 

The   Night   Sowers 

13 

The  Madonna  of  Termonde  . 

14 

LOTJV'AIN 

15 

At  Epernay 

17 

The   Vintage 

18 

Har\t:st 

19 

Luther 

20 

In  the  Xight 

21 

Sunset  Trees 

.       22 

In  France 

23 

In  the  Pale  Watches  of  the  Moon 

24 

The   Expiation         .... 

25 

At   Rheims 

26 

After  Rheims 

28 

Wine  for  the  King 

29 

Can    It    Be?     

.       30 

Xight  in  the  Trenches 

.       31 

The  Tides  of  Yser 

.       32 

Mother  and  Son      .... 

.       33 

What  Tidings?         .... 

.       34 

The  War  of  Kings  .... 

.       35 

The  Bells  of  Termonde 

.       36 

The  Winds  of 

God  .... 

.       37 

34iid 


PAGE 

At  the  Golden  Horn 38 

Pebseus 39 

Bbaveby     . 40 

Victories 41 


THE    VALE    OP    SHADOWS 

There  is  a  vale  in  the  Flemish  land, 

A  vale  once  fair  to  see, 
Where  under  the  sweep  of  the  sky's  wide  arch, 
Though  winter  freeze  or  summer  parch. 
The  stately  poplars  march  and  march, 

Kemembering  Lombardy. 

Here  are  men  of  the  Saxon  eyes, 

Men  of  the  Saxon  heart, 
Men  of  the  fens  and  men  of  the  Peak, 
Men  of  the  Kentish  meadows  sleek. 
Men  of  the  Cornwall  cove  and  creek. 

Men  of  the  Dove  and  Dart. 

Here  are  men  of  the  kilted  clans 

From  the  heathery  slopes  that  lie 
Where  the  mists  hang  gray  and  the  mists  hang 

white, 
And  the  deep  lochs  brood    'neath  the  craggy 

height. 
And  the  curlews  scream  in  the  moonless  night 
Over  the  hills  of  Skye. 

Here  are  men  of  the  Celtic  breed, 

Lads  of  the  smile  and  tear. 
From  where  the  loops  of  the  Shannon  flow, 
And  the  crosses  gleam  in  the  even-glow, 

7 


And  the  halls  of  Tara  now  are  low, 
And  Donegal  cliffs  are  sheer. 

And  never  a  word  does  one  man  speak, 

Each  in  his  narrow  bed, 
For  this  is  the  Vale  of  Long  Release, 
This  is  the  Vale  of  the  Lasting  Peace, 
Where  wars,   and   the   rumours  of  wars,   shall 
cease. 

The  valley  of  the  dead. 

No  more  are  they  than  the  scattered  scud, 

No  more  than  broken  reeds. 
No  more  than  shards  or  shattered  glass, 
Than  dust  blown  down  the  winds  that  pass, 
Than  trampled  wefts  of  pampas-grass 

When  the  wild  herd  stampedes. 

In  the  dusk  of  death  they  laid  them  down 

With  naught  of  murnniring, 
And  laughter  rings  through  the  House  of  ]\Iirth 
To  hear  the  vaunt  of  the  high  of  birth. 
For  what  are  all  the  kings  of  earth 

Before  the  one  great  King! 

And  what  shall  these  proud  war-lords  say 

At  foot  of  His  mighty  throne? 
For  there  shall  dawn  a  reckoning  day, 
Or  soon  or  late,  come  as  it  may, 
8 


When  those  who  gave  the  sign  to  slay- 
Shall  meet  His  face  alone. 

What,  think  ye,  will  their  penance  be 

Who  have  wrought  this  monstrous  crime? 

What  shall  whiten  their  blood-red  hands 

Of  the  stains  of  riven  and  ravished  lands  ? 

How  shall  they  answer  God's  stern  commands 
At  the  last  assize  of  Time? 

For  though  we  worship  no  vengeance-god 

Of  madness  and  of  ire, 
No  Presence  gi'im,  with  a  heart  of  stone, 
Shall  they  not  somehow  yet  atone  ? 
Shall  they  not  reap  as  they  have  sown 

Of  fury  and  of  fire? 

There  is  a  vale  in  the  Flemish  land 
Where  the  lengthening  shadows  spread 

When  day,  with  crimson  sandals  shod, 

Goes  home  athwart  the  mounds  of  sod 

That  cry  in  silence  up  to  God 
From  the  valley  of  the  dead! 


PRAYER    IN    TIME    OF    CONFLICT 

0  thou  Invisible  Power, 
Name  some  anointed  hour 

When  strife  shall  cease  and  peace  again  shall 
flower ! 

Thy  sun  and  stars  behold 

Miseries  manifold, 

Terror  and  anguish  that  may  not  be  told ; 

Lands  severed  by  the  sword, 

Blood  as  red  wine  outpoured 

Before  Thy  temples,  hallowed  and  adored. 

And  hark ! — upon  the  air 

The  burden  of  despair! 

Mothers  and  children — fold  them  in  Thy  care! 

Omnipotent,  befriend! 

Shelter,  protect,  forefend, 

And  bid  this  reign  of  hate  and  horror  end ! 


10 


THE    CARNIVAL 

Oh,  the  autumn-tide  is  the  carnival  tide, 

And  what  shall  the  carnival  wear? 
Shall  it  be  the  blue  of  the  haze-hung  skies 
That  is  blent  with  gold  and  with  topaz  dyes? 
Shall  it  be  the  pied  soft  green  that  lies 
On  the  meadow  slope  and  the  mountain  side, 
Shimmering  far  and  fair? 

Nay,  none  of  these  for  the  carnival  tide, 

For  red  is  the  carnival  wear! 
And  never  a  redder  carnival  shone 
Than  now  where  the  San  and  the  Aisne  flow  on 
In  the  red  of  the  eve,  in  the  red  of  the  dawn, 
And  the  war-fires  rule  and  the  thunders  ride 

Under  the  autumn  air ! 

Of  what  avail  is  this  carnival  tide, 

This  blood-red  carnival  wear. 
These  carnival  lines  that  rock  and  reel 
And  eddy  and  sally  and  meet  and  wheel 
And  break  like  a  surge  on  a  shore  of  steel? 
Aye,  what,  when  the  doom-led  men  have  died, 

Does  the  King  of  the  carnival  care? 


11 


THE    WATCHER   BY    THE    TOWER 

Upon  a  far  land 's  borders, 
At  dawn  and  sunset  hour, 

There  stands  a  silent  Watcher, 
The  Watcher  by  the  Tower ! 

The  moments  glide  like  ripples 

Upon  a  summer  rill; 
Unchallenging,  unchanging, 

He  keeps  his  vigil  still. 

The  serried  lines  of  armies 
Sweep  on,  a  mighty  span; 

They  do  not  see  the  Watcher, 
And  yet  he  marks  each  man. 

The  blaring  of  the  bugle. 
The  daring  of  the  flute, 

He  knows  upon  what  morrow 
Their  music  will  be  mute. 

The  streaming  of  the  guidons, 
The  gleaming  of  the  guns, 

Within  his  hand  he  holds  them 
As  God  His  flaming  suns. 

Wlio  is  the  grisly  warder 
AVitli  this  supernal  power? 

Death  is  the  silent  Watcher, 
The  Watcher  by  the  Tower! 
12 


THE    NIGHT    SOWERS 

(FRANCE) 

Lo,  these  are  they  tliat  toil  by  night 
With  mattock  and  with  spade, 

'Neath  the  faint  flickering  lanthorn  light, 
In  meadow  and  in  glade ! 

Row  upon  long  and  crowded  row. 

How  gruesome  is  the  seed  they  sow! 

Back  on  the  fair  and  furrowed  lands 

The  earth  and  sod  they  toss, 
And  some,  with  reverential  hands. 

Place  here  and  there  a  cross, 
A  simple  rough-hewn  cross  as  though 
To  sanctify  the  seed  they  sow. 

Oh,  may  some  flower  of  love  arise 

Above  the  bruised  sod, 
Some  flower  of  love  to  greet  the  eyes, 

The  grieving  eyes  of  God ! 
Some  flower  of  love  whereon  shall  fall 
The  dews  of  peace  perennial! 


13 


THE    MADONNA    OF    TERMONDE 

Within  a  convent  in  Termonde 

An  image  of  the  Virgin  stands 

Serene,  with  half  uplifted  hands 

And  eyes  that  seem  to  look  beyond 

The  mutability  of  things; 

Around,  war's  ruthless  ravagings. 

The  shattered  roof,  the  crumbling  wall, 

Are  like  a  sacrilege  malign. 

And  yet  some  power — was  it  divine? — 

Impalpable,  impending  there, 

Has  spared  the  image  and  the  shrine 

That  cast  a  glamour  over  all 

And  bid  the  soul  to  bow  in  prayer. 

A  miracle,  so  some  would  say; 
An  omen.     Be  this  as  it  may! 
The  sweet  Madonna  face  inspires 
The  thought.    Above  the  conflict  fires. 
The  hates,  the  base  desires  that  sway 
The  heart  of  man,  God  watches  still, 
And  works  toward  that  diviner  day 
"VVlien  good  shall  triumph  over  ill. 


14 


LOUVAIN 

From  Mont  Cesar  you  might  view  the  town, 

That,  ah,  that  was  hut  yesterday! 

Rich  in  romance  and  old  renown, 

Fair  in  the  light  of  the  Flemish  day. 

Hither  once  came  a  lord  of  Rome, 

Raised  him  ramparts  and  reared  him  a  home; 

Below  Saint  Pierre  and  Saint  Michel, 

And  the  stately  Hotel  de  Ville  as  well. 

With  their  pointed  windows  and  balustrades. 

Their  gables  and  turrets  and  open  spires. 

Took  the  gleam  of  the  sunset  fires 

And  the  tender,  tremulous  twilight  shades, 

And  the  splendor  of  morn  and  noon's  golden 

stain. 
How  lovely  to  view,  Louvain,  Louvain! 

Here  you  might  see  the  Dyle  glide  by, 
That,  ah,  that  was  hut  yesterday! 
Mirroring  towers  and  the  houses  high, 
Fair  in  the  light  of  the  Flemish  day. 
Here  you  might  feel,  in  the  Rue  Namur, 
Learning's  spirit,  of  art  the  lure; 
Here  you  list,  like  a  silvery  shower, 
The  spell  of  chimes  at  the  quarter  hour; 
Here  you  might  dream  of  the  far  gone  days, 
And  the  sturdy  weavers,  with  warlike  ways; 
15 


Of  French,  Bur^indians,  Spaniards, — all 
That   threatened    the    town   with    their   tyrant 

thrall ; 
Of  counts  and  dukes  with  their  pompous  train, 
And  thine  olden  glory,  Louvain,  Louvain! 

How  are  the  glow  and  glamour  gone! 
That,  ah,  that  teas  hut  yesterday! 
What  a  woeful  sight  to  look  upon 
Under  the  light  of  the  Flemish  day! 
Down  the  ages  the  cry  of  shame 
Will  ring,  and  the  naming  of  a  name. 
Scars  irreparable, — ghastly  scars, — 
The  roar  of  guns,  and  the  soar  of  flame 
Dimming  the  sun  and  blurring  the  stars, 
'Twas  thus  that  the  later  Vandals  came. 
Sacked  and  slew,  in  their  vengeful  ire, 
And  gloried  over  the  glutted  pyre. 
And  never  the  years  can  efface  the  stain 
Of  thy  ruthless  doom,  Louvain,  Louvain ! 


16 


AT    EPERNAY 

At  Epernay,  wlien  twilight  fell, 
The  sk>^  was  like  a  crimson  flower, 

And  the  faint  music  of  a  bell 

Do^vn  drifted  from  a  lonely  tower. 

Against  the  wonder  of  the  west 

A  line  of  poplars,  gaunt  and  thinned. 

Moved,  as  it  seemed,  in  sad  unrest. 
And  took  the  burden  of  the  wind. 

At  Epernay,  when  closed  the  night. 
There  was  no  peaceful  slumber-swoon. 

For  fires  went  up  wdth  lurid  light. 

And  dimmed  the  glamour  of  the  moon. 

Strange  fagots  these  that  fed  the  flames. 
The  bodies  of  the  maimed  and  lost; 

And  who  shall  ever  know  the  names 
Of  those  that  swelled  the  holocaust! 

For  hours  the  tramp  of  serried  hosts 
Was  heard  beneath  the  sky's  wide  arch, 

And  grim  the  gathering  of  ghosts 
Who  joined  in  that  nocturnal  march ! 

And  then  the  morn,  the  morn  at  last, 

A  pallid  eremite  in  gray. 
With  eyes  distended  and  aghast 

Above  the  pyres  at  Epernay! 
17 


THE    VINTAGE 

Rumours  of  ravaging  war  perturb  the  mind, 
Ruffling  the  channels  of  our  wonted  ease; 
Within  the  sky  we  read  red  auguries, 

And   hear   grim   portents   shivering   down   the 
wind. 

Not  as  aforetime  do  we  fondly  find 
Orchestral  notes  or  lulling  harmonies 
In  the  long  plunge  and  murmur  of  the  seas, 

But  discords  horrent  unto  all  mankind! 

The   fields   of   France   are   bright  with   poppy 
flowers ; 
Along  the  terraced  vineyards  by  the  Rhine 
The  ripening  grapes  are  crimsoning  for  the 

wine ; 
Beneath  the  sun  what  fairer  sight  to  see! 
But  ere  the  march  of  many  hastening  hours, 
What  will  the  bloom,  what  will  the  vintage 
be? 


18 


HARVEST 

The  golden  harvest-tide  has  gone, 

The  harvest  season,  bland  and  blithe, 

But  in  the  dusk  and  in  the  dawn 

The  mower  Death  still  whets  his  scythe. 

Since  yet  for  him,  yea,  yet  for  him 
Are  many  widespread  fields  to  reap, 

And  he  will  store  his  harvest  grim 
In  the  eternal  House  of  Sleep ! 


10 


LUTHER 

Luther,  the  world  has  need  of  thee! 
Thy  country  needs  thee  at  this  hour 
To  scourge  its  world-embattled  power 

And  stir  to  flame  democracy. 

Aye,  for  the  fervour  of  thy  words 

Were  more  than  guns,  were  more  than  swords! 

Couldst  thou  but  speak  as  thou  of  old 
Didst,  with  thy  stern  admonishings. 
The  dawn  of  far  diviner  things 

Might  come;  the  people  might  behold 

The  fall  of  arrogance,  the  fall 

Of  that  which  holds  fair  freedom  thrall! 

Luther,  the  world  has  need  of  thee! 
Thy  country  needs  thy  voice  to  show 
What  pain,  what  wantonness,  what  woe 

Hate  works,  and  greed  and  jealousy. 

Thy  voice! — for  then  might  topple  down 

Sceptre  and  prince  and  king  and  crown! 


20 


IN    THE    NIGHT 

Sometimes  grim  horror  grips  me  in  the  night 
When  I  am  fain  of  sleep,  when  I  am  fain 
Of  surcease  from  the  thought  of  woe  and  pain 

^Yhere   fields  once   fair  are  stricken  with  the 
blight 

And  whelm  of  battle ;  then  across  my  siglit 
Pale  phantoms  march,  a  melancholy  train, 
The  unhouselled  ghosts  of  the  unnumbered 
slain 

That  mark  Mars'  mad  and  holocaustal  rite. 

AYhat  will  the  end  be  ?    Can  no  puissant  power, 
Man's  dream  and  hope  from  some  dim  elder 

day, 
"With  hand  compassionate,  exorcize  the  spell? 
Or  have  we  fallen  on  that  awful  hour 
When  hosts  satanic,  in  their  dire  array, 
Menace  the  world  from  out  the  yawn  of 
hell? 


21 


SUNSET    TREES 

I  see  the  sunset  trees,  line  upon  line  on  the  sky ; 
I   see  the   sunset  trees,   and  they  seem  to   be 

marching  by; 
I  see  the  sunset  trees,  and  I  mind  me  of  armed 

men, 
Men  who  will  fade  in  the  dusk,  and  will  never 

come  again. 

I  see  the  sunset  trees,  supple  and  strong  and 

straight ; 
I  see  the  sunset  trees,  like  souls  on  the  verge  of 

fate; 
I  see  the  sunset  trees,  then  darkness  swallows 

them  quite. 
And  I  mind  me  of  marching  men  lost  in  the 

battle-night. 


IN  FRANCE 

(1914) 

*'Is  it  well  with  Henri  and  Jean  and  Paul?'* 
An  old  bent  man  to  a  mother  said, 

As  they  met  at  morn  by  a  little  stall 

Where  the  baker  sold  them  their  loaves  of 
bread. 

**Is  it  well  with  Henri  and  Jean  and  Paul?'* 
And  the  mother  bowed  as  beneath  a  rod; 

Then  she  answered,  ''Aye,  it  is  well  with  them 
all, 
Well  with  them  aU— they  are  all  with  God!'* 


23 


IN  THE  PALE  WATCHES  OF  THE  MOON 

Last  night,  in  the  pale  watches  of  the  moon, 
"While  round  the  rising  orb  a  halo  hung, 
I  heard  the  far  off  muttering  of  the  storm, 
Grim  detonations  from  behind  the  hills. 
Then  clouds  usurped  the  zenith,  grisly  shapes 
Black  and  portentous,  where  from  tongues  of 

flame 
Leaped  forth  and  lashed  the  sky.     And  lo,  it 

seemed 
As   though   earth   shuddered,    and    a    creeping 

wind 
Bore  cries  of  terror,  prophecies  of  doom. 
The  horror  following  in  the  wake  of  War! 


24 


THE  EXPIATION 

Mars,  the  insatiate,  san^ine  deity, 

The  flame  is  on  his  altar-fanes  once  more! 
And  spectral  Death  stands  waiting  at  the  door 

Where  women  sit  alone  in  misery. 

The  patient  land  and  the  long  weary  sea 
Shiver  expectant,  while  the  rage  and  roar 
Of  combat  deepen,  and  the  mountains  hoar 

"Watch  what  the  awful  holocaust  may  be. 

But  over  all  the  dreadful  battle-din. 

Loosed  as  it  were  from  out  the  mouth  of  Hell, 
The  shock,  the  thunder-boom,  the  wails,  the 

groans, 
Another  sound  may  rise — who  can  foretell? 
But  will  that  expiate  this  slaughter-sin. 

The  cries  of  kings  upon  their  crumbling 
thrones  ? 


25 


AT    RHEIMS 

I  can  recall  one  autumn  day  in  Rheims 

When  the  pervasive  peace  of  the  old  town 

Was  as  a  benediction.     All  the  air 

Was  peopled  with  the  imminence  of  dreams, 

Rapt  visions  of  renown, 

Of  Clovis,  and  the  fair  and  fabled  dove 

That  from  the  immaterial  realms  above 

The  sacred  vial  bore 

With  oil  to  consecrate  the  brows  of  kings ; 

Of  Louis  Debonair, 

And  of  Joan,  the  sainted  maid,  who  wore 

The  searing  crown  of  fire, 

And  from  her  sacrificial  pyre 

Passed  to  that  rest  beyond  life's  anguishings. 

The  twin  cathedral  towers 

In  the  impending  azure  like  great  flowers. 

Miraculously  fashioned,  seemed  to  show ; 

And  the  great  window  o'er  the  Virgin's  portal 

Was  as  a  rose  immortal 

Shaming  the  sunset  glow. 

And  now  another  autumn  day  in  Rheims, 
But  not  of  visual  glory,  not  of  dreams! 
Rather  of  horror  and  descending  doom. 
War's  hideous  blight  upon  the  perfect  bloom 
Of  art  and  beauty,  sacriU^ge  and  shame. 
And  all  through  one  invoking  God 's  high  name ! 
26 


As  the  swift  years  recede, 
All  lovers  of  the  loveliest  things  of  earth 
That  through  the  handiwork  of  man  have  birth 
Shall  execrate  the  deed! 


27 


AFTER    RHEIMS 

Sovereign  and  militant  lord  of  those  that  stain 
Forevermore  this  age  with  wantonness, 
Who  from  the  gyves  that  held  them  in  duress, 

Unloosed  the  Furies  with  their  bloody  train, 

After  the  ruthless  crime  of  red  Lou  vain, — 
The  ravage  and  the  ruin  pitiless, — 
Now  must  you  wreak  your  execrable  excess 

Upon  art's  loveliest,  art's  fairest  fane! 

Until  the  sands  of  time  have  ceased  to  run, 
Go  down  the  years  with  Attila  the  Hun, 

Who  cast  o  'er  Christendom  his  sanguine  spell ! 
He  was  God's  scourge  on  cowed  humanity; 
You  are  God's  servant — oh,  rare  irony! — 

You  call  on  Heaven;  rather  call  on  Hell! 


WINE    FOR    THE    KING 

What  is  the  word  of  the  wind?  The  word  of 
the  wind  is  War! — 

All  of  the  olden  horror !  Moloch  and  Mars  and 
Thor, 

These  supreme  and  sole,  with  Peace  but  a  tram- 
pled thing; 

Rapine  and  lust  and  famine,  and  blood  for  the 
wine  of  the  King! 

Tears  may  gather  and  fall  tlirough  all  of  the 

stricken  lands; 
The  kine  may  brood  in  the  stall,  the  harvest  rot 

where  it  stands ; 
The  cup  may  be  brimmed  with  gall,  with  the 

sweat  of  suffering, 
For  others — and  yet,   and  yet,   there  must  be 

wine  for  the  King! 

"What  of  the  awful  cost?  What  of  the  price  to 
pay? 

What  of  the  loved  and  lost  upon  many  a  san- 
guine day? 

What  of  the  bells  that  toll?— Hark,  how  the 
echoes  ring! 

Naught!  for  there  must  be  wine — red,  red  wine 
for  the  Kingr! 


29 


CAN    IT    BE? 

Down  my  mind's  corridors 

Go  murmuring  the  memories  of  old  wars ; 

By  day  and  night  they  haunt  me,  anguished 

cries 
From  fields  whence  only  the  lark's  song  should 

rise, 
Or  the  blithe  reaper's  shout  amidst  the  grain. 
And  now  there  comes  a  grimmer,  greater  pain 
Voicing  its  suffering.     O  God,  what  gain 
In  all  this  woe  of  nations  ?    Can  it  be 
Through  the  dark  valley  that  mankind  shall  win 
From  lust  of  power  and  jealousy  and  sin 
To  heights  of  peace  and  perfect  amity? 


30 


NIGHT    IN    THE    TRENCHES 

The  moon  above  the  trenches  shone 
Like  a  grim  beldam,  wizened,  wan; 
It  leered  and  jeered  till  some  one  swore 
In  jets  of  ribald  metaphor. 

Silence,  and  then  a  song,  and  then 
The  ghastly  quietude  again. 
Pierced  by  the  shrieking  of  a  shell 
Like  a  lost  soul  cast  down  to  hell. 

And  so  till  dawn  began  to  creep 
Across  the  land,  when  soothing  sleep 
About  its  hallowed  influence  shed 
And  none  could  tell  the  quick  or  dead. 


31 


THE  TIDES  OF  YSER 

The  tides  of  Yser  crawl  and  creep ; 

The  tides  of  Yser  creep  and  crawl, 
And  be  they  shallow,  be  they  deep. 

Death  is  the  deepest  bacchanal! 

He  laughs  the  while  his  cup  he  drains 
(Hymning  the  song  of  old  he  hymned!) 

From  Yser  tide,  with  crimson  stains. 
From  Yser  tide,  with  crimson  brimmed! 


32 


MOTHER   AND    SON 

**0  little  son,  0  little  son,  why  sob  you  in  af- 
fright? 
What  hear  you  in  the  night?'* 

**0  mother  mine,  0  mother  mine,  I  pray  thee 
hold  me  tight ! 

I  hear  the  roar   of   many    guns.     There    is    a 
dreadful  sight !'* 

**0  little  son,  O  little  son,  there  is  no  beam  or 

gleam ; 
It  must  be  but  a  dream!" 
"0  mother  mine,  0  mother  mine,  I  hear  the 

bullets  scream, 
And  dead  men  lie  with  staring  eyes  beside  a 

swollen  stream!" 

*  *  0  little  son,  0  little  son,  it  may  not — may  not 

be. 
This  awful  agony ! ' ' 
* '  O  mother  mine,  0  mother  mine,  the  vision  will 

not  flee; 
And,    mother    mine,    among    them    there    my 

father's  face  I  see!" 


33 


WHAT   TIDINGS? 

What  tiding,  winds  of  springtide,  do  ye  bear  1 — • 
What    from    the    slopes    of    castle-guarded 

Rhine  ? 
What  from   the  ancient  shrine   of   Constan- 
tine, 
And  from  the  fertile  Flemish  fields  and  fair? 
What  word  from  where  the  Russian  steppes  Lie 
bare 
Beneath  a  shrouded   sun?     What  speech  is 

thine 
From  England,  girdled  by  the  gray  sea-brine. 
And  France  the  dauntless  and  the  debonair? 

What   message    from   the    Danube?     Plangent 
tunes 
Have  ye  aforetime  borne  across  the  seas, — 
The  hates  and  horrors  of  the  bygone  years, — 
But  never  frantic  discords,  frenzied  runes 
Of  murder  and  of  madness  such   as   these, — 
The    Furies    mocking    at    God's    singing 
spheres ! 


34 


THE   WAR   OF   KINGS 

From  dawn  to  dusk  reign  horror  and  affright, 
And  the  sad  night  no  healing  respite  brings; 

In  all  its  hideous  panoply  of  might, 
This  is  the  war  of  kings! 

The  people  are  but  pawns  upon  the  board ; 
"What  of  their  wants,  their  woes,  their  suffer- 
ings? 
Speak,  Death,  dark  watcher  both  by  field  and 
ford. 
In  this  grim  war  of  kings! 

Will  history  still  repeat  the  sanguine  past. 
With  all  its  trail  of  ruthless  anguishings? 

Oh,  may  this  slaughter-carnival  be  the  last — 
The  last  dread  war  of  kings! 


35 


THE    BELLS    OF    TERMONDE 

Bells  of  Termonde,  chimes  that  have  rung  so 
long, 

Filling  the  Flemish  air 

With  mellow  call  to  prayer, 
Hushed  now  your  matin  and  your  vesper  song; 

Silence  about  you, — silence  and  despair! 

Yet  Hope  bids  lift  the  veil,  and  hear  beyond 

The  stillness  brooding  deep 

As  the  vast  seas  of  sleep 
Your  melody,  O  fair  bells  of  Termonde, 

Across  the  fields  where  men  shall  sow  and 
reap! 

For  o'er  the  land   there   shall  dawn  brighter 
days, 

Your  fertile  land  and  fond, 

And  hearts  shall  yet  respond 
To  your  rapt  music,  your  harmonious  lays, 

O  silent  bells,  O  sweet  bells  of  Termonde! 


36 


THE   WINDS   OF   GOD 

Across  the  azure  spaces, 

Athwart  the  vasts  of  sky, 
With  winnowings  of  mighty  wings 

The  winds  of  God  go  by. 

Above  the  meres  and  mountains, 

With  unseen  sandals  shod, 
Above  the  plains,  with  choric  strains, 

Sweep  by  the  winds  of  God. 

''Peace! — in  His  name!"  they  murmur; 

"Peace — in  His  name!"  they  cry — 
Oh,  men,  give  ear!    Do  ye  not  hear 

The  winds  of  God  go  by? 


37 


AT    THE    GOLDEN   HORN 

The  sunrise  cry  from  many  minarets 

Floats  down  the  vernal  morning,  clear  and 
cool; 
From   Asian   shores   a   blaiid   breeze  westward 
sets, 
And  stirs  the  almond  trees  of  Istamboul. 

As  on  the  mosques  the  first  rays  slantwise  shine, 
And  golden  glory  floods  the  gloomy  gray, 

The  city  of  imperial  Constantine 

Uplifts  her  weary  lids  to  greet  the  day. 

The  torpor  of  decay  upon  her  lies; 

Her  heart  is  palsied  though  her  face  be  fair, 
Though  still  majestic  to  the  cloudless  skies 

Ay  a  Sofia  rears  its  dome  in  the  air. 

What  though  the  fitful  glow  of  life  seem  warm. 
There  broods  a  fatal  apathy  o  'er  all ; — 

It  is  the  hush  that  bodes  the  breaking  storm, 
The  calm  that  comes  before  the  final  fall! 


38 


PERSEUS 

The  old  Medusa  War,  of  grim  array, 

Lo,  we  had  deemed  the  grisly  horror  dead ! 

May  there  arise  some  Perseus  Peace  to  slay 
This  new  Medusa  of  the  gorgon  head! 


BRAVERY 

Valiant  the  men  who  march  in  swin^ng  lines 
And  at  the  mouths  of  cannon  face  their  fate ; 

But  no  less  radiantly  the  courage  shines 

Of  those  who  bide  behind  and  watch — and 
wait! 


40 


VICTORIES 

Strife  strides  o'er  alien  lands  with  deafening 
roar, 

And,  as  we  list,  the  fearsome  sounds  increase ; 
May  all  our  triumphs  be,  from  shore  to  shore, 

The  victories  of  Peace! 


41 


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SEP  2  1918 


MAY  12  1919 


343535 


UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA  LIBRARY 


# 


